A servant stepped into the room, pausing mid-step as he saw the Prince and Wellesley in a quiet embrace. Eyes dropping to the floor, he murmured,
"Your Highness, dinner is prepared. Shall I bring it in?"
The silence that followed was sharp.
Christopher cleared his throat and stepped back with a sudden stiffness, brushing his sleeve as if embarrassed by his own hand.
"Have you lost your senses?" he snapped. "Do you not know how to knock?"
The servant stammered an apology and backed away. Wellesley turned her face to the side, trying to compose herself, but her eyes stole quick glances at Christopher—and she caught the faint blush crawling over his ears.
That did it. She laughed.
It started as a soft breath but swelled quickly into a peal that filled the room. The servant froze mid-retreat, his expression stunned. Even Christopher blinked, confused.
Wellesley laughing? The Cold Witch?
Christopher found himself watching her, not because of how strange it was—but because of how natural it looked on her. He didn't know what amused her, but her laughter... it made something tighten in his chest.
Trying to play it off, he casually leaned against the table. "Wanna eat together?"
The question hit Wellesley like a bolt. She stared at him, wide-eyed. The offer sounded simple, but it held a weight she couldn't name. He had never once dined with her before—not because they couldn't, but because they shouldn't. A prince and a commoner.
Yet here he was, inviting her. And smiling like it meant nothing.
She nodded wordlessly.
Christopher turned to the servant. "Bring it here. We'll dine in the chamber."
They sat on cushions, the tray placed between them. Christopher, to her further shock, began cutting the meat. Carefully. Precisely. He set pieces on her plate, even fed her a few bites when she wasn't quick enough to lift her spoon.
There was no hesitation. No revulsion. His face didn't wear the typical nobleman's disdain. In fact, he looked oddly at ease.
Too at ease.
Wellesley's gaze lingered on his hands. Then on his face.
Why? she thought. Why is he doing this? The servant's already gone. There's no one to impress. No need to act close.
The man sitting across from her didn't resemble the cold, arrogant prince she had known. Christopher, like every other noble, was raised to uphold decorum—feeding someone else, especially a woman of lower birth, was a disgrace. One that would stain generations.
Then why does he look so… unbothered?
She swallowed the food slowly, unease rising.
This isn't him. Or at least… not the him I've known.
Meanwhile, Christopher's fingers paused as he stared at the spoon in his hand. A voice echoed in his skull, sharp and familiar.
"What a disgrace you are. Clinging to a woman, now feeding her like a servant? You've no spine left."
He smirked faintly to himself.
"I'm the disgrace? That's rich. Remind me—who made a hobby out of sneering at her?"
"And yet here you are, pretending affection."
"Pretending?" he whispered inwardly. "If you knew how to feel, you'd know I'm not pretending."
"You're bending rules for her. That's weakness."
"No. That's insurance. I'm choosing her because she's useful. That's what you always wanted, right? Loyalty. Leverage. Strength."
The voice didn't reply, but the tension lingered. A bead of sweat slipped down his neck.
Suddenly, the spoon slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Wellesley snapped out of her thoughts. She'd been debating whether or not to confront him—now felt like the right time.
"Your Highness," she said, voice cautious. "Are you alright? I mean… forgive me if I overstep, but you seem… distant. As if someone else is standing in your place."
He didn't respond. His eyes were lowered, his expression unreadable.
She hesitated, then continued softly, unaware that he wasn't truly listening.
"I've known Christopher for a long time. He's never spoken to me kindly. He's never embraced me, never shared a meal, let alone fed me like this. The Christopher I know would never set aside his pride for anyone." Her voice trembled slightly. "Unless… it was for a reason. A task. Something only I could help with."
She looked down at her lap. "If that's what this is, if you're only being kind because you need me… then say it. You don't have to pretend. I already told you—I'll do anything for you."
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
Christopher didn't move. His head lowered into his hands, knuckles pressed to his temples as the storm inside his mind thundered on.
When she finally looked up, alarm rose.
"Your Highness?" she asked, rising quickly. "Are you alright?"
He forced his eyes open and gave a weak smile. "Yeah… just a headache. It'll pass."
Wellesley didn't believe him for a second, but she said nothing. She slipped an arm under his to help him up, guiding him gently toward the bed.
His steps were sluggish, but he didn't resist. When she laid him down and went to fetch help, a sudden grip on her wrist stopped her.
"Stay," he whispered. "Accompany me."
Her breath caught. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable.
There was no arrogance in his eyes now. No coldness. Just exhaustion... and something else.
Something that didn't need to be explained.